


From This High Terrain

by faketreefinger



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faketreefinger/pseuds/faketreefinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish" -Herman Hesse</p>
            </blockquote>





	From This High Terrain

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a sort of follow-up to 7x23 "The Good, The Bad, & The Dominatrix" as well as a few other storylines from season seven. I've always been very intrigued by how two people that have a hard time expressing themselves could make a relationship work. I can't remember the last time I wrote anything in the first person so I would be very happy to hear your thoughts on it. The title of this fic is from a song called "Tell Her This" by Del Amitri. Thanks for reading!

The sound of my keys sliding out of the lock was jarring in the hushed room and the sheer emptiness startled me. At the very least, I expected the jangle of Hank's tags accompanied by the endearing  _tap tap_ of his toenails hitting the hardwood floor. But I was met with nothing. I felt unusually timid as I softly placed my keys on the coffee table, looking around the room. Sara was home. If I hadn't seen her car, I still would have felt her presence in our shared space.

Her demeanor toward me had been cool at best, indifferent at worst. Although I felt no remorse for spending my evening off with Heather — it had felt like the right thing to do — I hadn't handled it appropriately. Her anger had been justified. I had behaved like a man who lived alone, making decisions in a vacuum as I was wont to do on occasion.

However justifiable her anger had been, her reaction had been unexpected and it had been a long time since I had felt this alienated by her. It crossed my mind as I was driving home, her cell phone going unanswered, that perhaps I had finally exhausted her ability to forgive my shortcomings.

Perhaps, it was irreparable.

The idea, the mere thought, sent a fear-laced adrenaline rush through my extremities. It settled in my stomach and constricted my throat.

I poured myself a glass of Scotch and sat on the couch, swirling it absently. A new copy of  _Scientific American_  was laying on the table and I flipped through it, uninterested.

"You idiot," I whispered to the empty room.

xxx

When I had returned home from Massachusetts months ago, I had expected a bit more defiance from Sara. Indeed, I had considered that she wouldn't be all that happy to see me. Perhaps that is why I ambushed her in the hallway. Like me, Sara never liked surprises much. However, I found it difficult to resist when the opportunity presented itself. Catching her off-guard was always the best way to keep her reactions contained.

There she was, striding down the hallway. Even in the bleak austerity of the lab, the fluorescent bulbs highlighting every imperfection, I'd never seen her look more exquisite. My eyes had starved for the sight of her. She was filthy and smelled like a rotten banana, but I was nonetheless suppressing the primal urge to press her against the glass wall and stick my tongue down her throat.

Missing someone that way had been unsettling and altogether new to me. I told her I would miss her before I left, and I had meant it, but I had not been prepared for the dull ache that would settle somewhere in the very center of my being. I experienced it my entire trip and our clipped phone conversations, texts, and emails hadn't relieved it. I remember laying there in the dormitory bed, my hand pressed against the warmth of my chest, lazily rubbing back and forth. I pictured her next to me, always.

My heart hurt but felt full. To my surprise, the anxiety that had accompanied that feeling years ago was completely missing.

I had focused meaningfully on my tasks and my students, but a cold snap had washed over me that had nothing to do with the Northeastern winter weather. And when I had returned, a brilliant warmth had encompassed me that had nothing to do with the desert. I felt truly prepared to admit what that warmth was, what it had always been.

That afternoon, I'd returned home exhausted. After giving an unexpected amount of emotional support to Catherine, I was drained. The sudden need for intimacy, not just sex but real intimacy, overwhelmed me the moment I entered my condo. It was likely the scent that was spurring me. It was subtle, but there was an unmistakeable smell of lemongrass and lavender in the air. During the beginning of our intimate relationship, I'd smell it — her smell— and have to fight the testosterone-fueled surge of desire that coursed through me and settled in my groin. Biology enslaves me as much as any man, I suppose.

She was asleep on my bed and my heart sighed at the sight of her. Her chestnut hair in soft waves cloaked the pillow. She was on her side, her right hand delicately on the sheet beside her, her features set in a serious expression. This was real sleep and I felt privileged to know that.

The majority of my clothes discarded, I slid in between the sheets beside her. Her breath hitched as she jerked from a deep sleep. I felt guilty, surprising her again. I was being selfish, I knew that, but I also remember Nathaniel Hawthorne saying something about selfishness being apt to inspire love. So, I tugged on her hip and saw her smile in the darkness.

Her eyes met mine. She was about to speak when I covered her mouth with mine. I can't remember ever feeling so desperate to please her, to pour assurances into her. My hand was rough against the smooth skin of her belly. My fingertips tingled as she shuddered underneath me. I kissed her deeply, my hand trailing below the band of her underwear. I ground against her leg, an involuntary reaction to the feel of her on my fingertips.

Her moans, feminine and raw, were beautifully erotic and endlessly compelling. She writhed, clutched the sheets, dug her heels into the mattress, never opening her eyes. She knew I was watching her and I wondered if it fueled her. The sight of her heaving in a fit of ecstasy certainly fueled me.

When she was descending, a sheen of cold sweat collecting on her forehead, she gave a self-conscious laugh. I grinned, elated at how malleable she had been in my hand, how absolutely and unbelievably willing.

Smiling against her damp neck and kissing that beautiful spot beneath her ear, I spoke, "God, I missed you."

"Yeah?"

"Did you miss me?"

She bit her lip and considered me, eyes narrowing dangerously. I felt exposed all of a sudden, painfully aroused and nervous. She ran her hand through my overgrown beard as I half-hovered over her, my hard-on still jutting into her hip. I resisted the urge to buck into her.

Finally, she nodded. "Yeah… maybe a little more than I'm comfortable with." She looked away, a brief moment of discomfort on her face. I watched her swallow, pushing something down.

Although Sara pursued me brazenly in the initial stages of our relationship, her confidence was not unshakeable. She was much more apt to admit her feelings than I, but it was often followed by a self-deprecating wince that always left me with deplorable guilt. Part of my personal growth had been to recognize when she was feeling particularly vulnerable so that at the very least, I didn't invalidate her feelings.

"Well," I said, placing a soft kiss on the tip of her nose, "I'm completely comfortable with it." I wasn't lying. I didn't know if she believed me or not.

She just sighed and pulled me into her. We made love slowly that afternoon and she moved in with me the next day.

xxx

Now, she was quietly sleeping in our bed not because she wanted me to slide in beside her, but because she didn't have anywhere else to go. She had avoided me sufficiently throughout the day, rebuffing me entirely when I tried to explain myself. If I even  _could_  have explained my relationship with Heather Kessler.

_Do what you need to do_ , her words echoed in my head. So I had. I'd been a good friend to Heather, and a bad — whatever I was —to Sara.

The bedroom door was closed, but not all the way. Soft light flowed through the cracked door. A gentle push and the door smoothly and soundlessly swung open. She was asleep, a book haphazardly open beside her.  _Guns, Germs, and Steel_ by Jared Diamond. I'd been recommending that she read that book for ages.

After placing the book gently on her nightstand, I sat down beside her. My weight dipped the mattress down, stirring her. Her eyes slowly opened. They were heavy and dark, the lamplight throwing odd shadows across the bed. A strand of hair had fallen over her face and I reached out to tuck it behind her ear. I felt an odd mixture of tenderness and trepidation within my gut.

The look she gave me was soft but unreadable. Sara was like this on occasion. When she wanted me to know what she was feeling, what she was trying to convey, it was obvious. But other times, I could look into her eyes for painfully long moments and see nothing. She was just as good at hiding as I was. Alarmingly so.

For my part, words were not forthcoming. I felt much, but could say little. Hermann Hesse said, rather eloquently:  _Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish._ Whether I wanted to or not, I embraced this idea wholeheartedly and often felt that my words couldn't possibly convey the depth of my feelings. Because of this, I rarely bothered.

I clenched my jaw, feeling lost. "I'm sorry," I croaked out. I flinched at the sound of my voice in the stillness of the room. Her eyes changed, a gradual thing that I would have never noticed if I didn't have intimate knowledge of her. She softened.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asked. Her tone normal, almost sweet.

After a beat, I nodded and lifted myself from the edge of the bed. I gave Hank a heavy pat on his hock and shooed him from his post at her feet. I undressed, she turned the off the light.

When I got into the bed, she immediately curled around me, her head resting on my chest. I was astonished and perhaps a little crestfallen that she was so forgiving. I wanted to ask her why she never let me talk, why couldn't she just let me struggle through a half-assed explanation at the very least. I owed her that.

I didn't want her to tell me that she was afraid I would disappoint her.

I asked anyway, "Why do you forgive me so easily?"

Perhaps she didn't know herself. If she ever did anything that required my forgiveness, maybe I'd understand. Her silence was daunting, but I didn't waver.

"Hmm?" I pressed, running my fingers along her arm.

She gave a sort of scoff and shook her head, her hair tickling my chest. "Oh, Gilbert" —she called me that sometimes, always affectionately — "Because I love you."

My hand stopped. Everything stopped. She gave a resigned sigh, a reaction to  _my_ reaction no doubt. I'd never heard another person outside of my mother say those words to me. I don't know why it was so staggering.

I couldn't say it, but I loved hearing it. It was a beautiful sentence, however simple.

I thought about the letter I'd written her. With shameful cowardice, I hadn't sent it. But when I'd returned and found it tucked within the pages my leather-bound Shakespeare collection, I'd left the entire book on her side of the bed with her name exposed  _just so_.

The letter had been missing when I found the book on my nightstand, a silent recognition of my unconventional way of communicating with her.

I smiled and kissed the top of her head. I didn't have any borrowed words on the tip of my tongue and it didn't matter anyway, because she was drifting off to sleep on my chest, her hand resting over my heart.

I felt like a failure.

xxx

I woke up with a start, a realistic and dreadful dream escaped my memory immediately. I was sweaty and the sheets were in tangles. Sara was gone, but I heard muted sounds in the other room. A lid being placed on a pot, the tinny sound of the television. The sheet was drenched under me, and I rolled out of bed distastefully.

I leaned over the bathroom sink and glanced at my gruff image in the mirror. I looked rough, like I hadn't slept at all. After gathering the damp sheets, I padded into the kitchen. She was rummaging in the refrigerator. I watched her for a moment.  _No one else sees this side of her_ , I thought to myself. The thought hugged my heart as much as the sight of her in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. She stood up and turned around, my sudden appearance giving her pause.

"Good morning," she said, smiling brightly. The morning was 5pm in our household, just another unconventionality that I was oddly proud of. She nodded at the sheets in my hand questioningly.

"I was sweaty," I explained.

"Bad dreams?"

"I can't remember," I called out as I tossed them into the laundry room.

"Are you hungry?"

I nodded yes and moments later, she sat an omelet in front of me with a piece of toast. She looked strange, avoiding my eyesight. "You okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she said, giving me a cheerful smile. I wasn't convinced, but I also wasn't sure whether or not I should press her. She put a glass of orange juice in front of me and I put my hand on her wrist before she could pull it away. I squeezed her hand and her eyebrows raised.

"Thank you," I said, my voice more serious than I'd intended. I'm not sure what I was thanking her for. The meal, sure, but so much more than that.

She gave me a tight smile and seemed to recognize what I was saying. She pursed her lips, an endearing expression that I never tired of seeing. I could tell that she was thinking of what to say as she pulled her hand away and stepped back from the kitchen table. I'd resigned the moment as lost and began eating my omelet when she leaned up against the counter, orange juice in hand, and spoke.

"Why didn't you send me the letter?"

I certainly wasn't expecting that and I swallowed hard. My eyes wide on her, I opened my mouth. She was just as skilled at catching me off-guard when she wanted to.

"I should have," I replied frankly.

Her eyes settled on the floor, her voice even. "I would have liked to have gotten it."

"I know, Sara. I just thought… maybe I could find a way to tell you all that stuff myself."

"But you haven't." Her eyes were still on the floor, her voice almost robotic. "You can't."

A minute passed and I shook my head at myself. These exact moments were the primary reason why I avoided romantic involvement in the first place. I felt like I was arriving at a crime scene without my field kit. I didn't have the emotional tools needed to even approach the problem. Though I was leagues better at it, I still felt stunted.

The chair let out a shrill screech against the floor as I got up, but she didn't budge. I crossed the few feet where she was standing and took the orange juice from her hand, setting it on the counter behind her. She looked up at me, an amused look on her face. I brought her into an embrace and hugged her tightly to my body. She was rigid at first, but sunk into me after a moment, connecting her hands behind my back. Her head fell on my shoulder.

"You understand me," I spoke into her hair, "You forgive my behavior no matter how peculiar or foolish. That means more to me than I could ever say. One day, I fear, I'm going to stretch that forgiveness to its limit."'

She gave a mirthless laugh. "I doubt it."

I pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were slightly wet and despite everything, she wore a beautiful smile. She was unbelievable and I didn't deserve her. Warmth flowed through my body and it suddenly seemed ridiculous for me not to share it.

"I love you," I said with a grin. Her breath hitched and she pulled me back into a hug.

It was beautiful. And simple.


End file.
